Silver Smoke and Shattered Mirrors
by theGreatMissJJ
Summary: Draco Malfoy wants Harry Potter. A series of vignettes from the Dragon. work in progress.
1. Potions Class

Chapter One- Potions Class  
  
A lesson in desire.  
  
************************************  
  
I know what he will taste like.  
  
He will taste of vibrant green and sun-dred skin, of yellow tartness and warm breezes, lemony and bitter and salty and sweet on my tongue.  
  
I want to take his lips in mine, to catch that bottom lip between my teeth, to quench my burning thirst with the pool of saliva collected there. I want to run my tongue along two perfect rows of ivoury-white, to trace the contours of his mouth, to lick away the drops of sweat beading his upper lip, tasting his life, his weakness, his innocence.  
  
I want him.  
  
I want Harry Potter.  
  
"Mr. Potter, you are to work with Mr. Malfoy. I suggest you gather your things and move immediately." Sometimes I wonder if Snape is a sado- masochist, drawing perverse sexual pleasure in holing himself away in this mouldy dungeon and setting me against Potter. He has that leering smile on his face, a sick, twisted grin that causes an uncomfortable twisting of my innards.  
  
"I would move now, Mr. Potter."  
  
He rises from his seat, a smooth, unhurried motion. He sheds his robes and casually rolls up his sleeves, gathering his materials almost carelessly and stuffing them into his bag.  
  
He doesn't catch my eyes as he makes his way over from Weasley's side and carefully deposits his lithe, slender form next to mine.  
  
The fine hairs prickle along the back of my neck from being in such close proximity to him. It's as though every fiber of my being, every cell, is leaping out towards Potter, wanting to touch that flawless skin, to feel the heat of his breath, to smell the nights of Quidditch practice in his hair.  
  
"Well, Potter, why don't you get to work?" I drawl, flicking the ash from charred scarab beetles away from me lazily.  
  
Green eyes flash at me and I feel a jolt like lightning zing through me. But he looks down at the table as he arranges the ingredients for the Wakefulness Draught, his long, dark eyelashes casting feathery shadows over his eyes.  
  
No, Potter. Look at me. Look at me and never look away.  
  
"Why don't you get to work, Malfoy," he says irritably.  
  
"I can't; it'll mar my hands," I say daintily, admiring my nails. Let Potter think me a fop, then.  
  
He makes a disgusted noise deep in the back of his throat and sets out to making the potion.  
  
The truth is, I want to see him, to watch him. To allow myself time to scrutinise his every move, each fluid, graceful motion.  
  
How is it possible for someone to be so beautiful?  
  
I casually slide him materials across the table, which he takes without a second glance at me. I want him to; I want him to look up from the Wakefulness Draught and see me, really see me: Draco Malfoy, a boy hopelessly in love, not his father's accessory and toy.  
  
Our fingers brush slightly as I pass him dried witch hazel. I can feel the heat of our brief contact flood my body to burn brightly in my cheeks and ears. Potter's eyes flick my way and I feel a tingling erupt at the base of my skull.  
  
Again, I slide him the things he needs, but this time, I take care to touch him. A blush throws itself across his pure, flawless skin, firing his cheeks with a rush of vitality.  
  
I feel the smirk manifest itself on my lips.  
  
He grabs the ingredients from me quickly, not catching my eyes. His mouth is set in an obstinate line and I find myself wanting to take his godlike face in my hands, to kiss away that hard frown at the corner of his lips, to soften them with my tongue.  
  
He licks them.  
  
Little by little, he adds ingredients to the potion, in the order Snape has written on the blackboard.  
  
Contrary to the popular misbelief, Potter really is a bad Potions student. He's not bullied by Snape, he's not distracted by jeers from the Slytherin table.  
  
See, the little sod forgot the essense of belladonna.  
  
"Potter," I say, "You've forgotten the belladonna."  
  
He glances up quickly at what Snape has written. His brows wrinkle and an angry flush bleeds across his face. He mutters an incoherent curse under his breath, and reaches for the belladonna.  
  
"If I get a bad mark on this assignment, it'll be entirely your fault," I grin.  
  
He continues to ignore me.  
  
No, Potter. Look at me. Look at me, yell at me, hate me...  
  
Only notice me.  
  
My hands clench in frustration and disappointment.  
  
Potter...  
  
I casually rest my hand on the spine of lionfish, the next ingredient to go into the draught. I stare at my hand, willing it to look relaxed, forcing it to lay there calmly.  
  
As Potter chops the dried witch hazel, his knuckles graze the lionfish. So close. So fucking close.  
  
My fingers twitch ever-so-slightly.  
  
His hand reaches for the lionfish, but he grabs my hand instead.  
  
He looks up, startled.  
  
I hold his gaze, staring at him. His green eyes are wide and innocent and surprised. His hand doesn't lift from mine and he seems to be caught in a trance.  
  
Don't move, Potter.  
  
Don't move.  
  
The light catches on his specs and his eyes are lost, obscured by its reflection.  
  
The spell is broken and the moment is gone. Potter quickly snatches his hand away.  
  
Make yourself useful," he says, shoving a pickled shrivelfig at me.  
  
I don't answer him and once more, he glances up from his work to look at me and scrutinise my silence.  
  
I smile.  
  
"Get to work, Malfoy."  
  
His hands tremble slightly as he returns to shredding asphodel roots. 


	2. Smoke

Chapter Two- Smoke  
  
Can you share a kiss with someone whose lips you've never tasted?  
  
*******************************  
  
There is a place above Binns' classroom that's secluded away from the rest of the school by a roofline partition. It overlooks the school grounds but is hidden from view by a line of tall oak trees.  
  
I often go there for a smoke. From there, I have a birds-eye, often voyeuristic view of the students below, and I go there to feel omnipotent, puffing away at my father's pipe, letting the evening breeze that blows in from the lake wash over me, sweeping away the ash from my pipe and soot from my soul.  
  
This time the bastard took away my pocket money. My marks were less than satisfactory this term and he was determined to punish me until I "shaped up." Mother, of course, must have protested vociferously, but he would have silenced her, silenced her along with my life, snuffed in his hand like a match blown out.  
  
I trace the ornate L.M. along the base of the pipe. When I was a child, my father used to always sit in the armchair in the parlour and smoke on the pipe. I would stand next to him, holding the ashtray, catching the sparks in my hair and my clothes until he had finished and I was left with nothing, nothing but the taste of ash and charred love in my mouth.  
  
There is a scrape on the tiles behind me.  
  
Potter stands there, his hands in his pockets, looking at me before quickly turning away. I feel a jolt run along my spine.  
  
He's so fucking gorgeous.  
  
The light of the setting sun lends a golden cast to his translucent skin turning the tips of his hair aflame with red, the edges of his lashes a glittering black in the approaching night.  
  
For a while I can think of nothing to say.  
  
"What do you think you're doing up here, Potter?" I ask, delicately flecking ash from my robes. "This is for purebloods only."  
  
"I am a pureblood," he answers simply. He's still not looking at me.  
  
Turn, Potter. Turn towards me. Look at me. Acknowledge me.  
  
"Ha," I scoff, pipe between my teeth, "Pureblood? Even after what your father married, that dirty Mudblood?" I expect a blow, or at least a violent word from him, but nothing comes.  
  
Hate me, Potter, hit me, strike me.  
  
Just don't ignore me.  
  
Instead, I hear another scrape to see that Potter has picked up a roof tile.  
  
"What are you doing?" I ask.  
  
He doesn't answer, but flings the tile as far away from him as he can. There is a slight splash in the distance as the object strikes the lake, but I see no ripple in the water in the failing light.  
  
"Why don't you leave Potter?" I say, puffing on my father's pipe, tasting the bitterness of my voice on my tongue. "Leave and find someone who will actually tolerate your presence."  
  
Don't go.  
  
Stay.  
  
"I can be up here if I want to, Malfoy," he says, with just the slightest bit of bite in his words. He sits down as though to demonstrate his point.  
  
He is a mere two yards away from me. I can feel the heat of his body, warming me against the chill of the encroaching darkness. I take another puff of the pipe and let him sit there.  
  
He is staring at me.  
  
The knowledge that he is staring at me unabashedly does strange things to my anatomy. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and a crinkly feeling runs up and down the length of my spine.  
  
"What, Potter?" I snap.  
  
"Who taught you how to smoke a pipe?" he asks.  
  
Startled, I take the object from my mouth and look at it. There are bite marks on the end that are all mine, and slight discolourations at the base where my father's and my fingers have worn away the wood polish.  
  
"What's it to you, Potter?" I ask, spitting out his surname between my teeth. I bite the end of the pipe again, letting the mellow tobacco smoke settle in my lungs.  
  
Who taught me? Who taught me? Nobody, that's who. I used to watch my father disappear in a cloud of smoke every evening, wishing his elegant hand gestures as he raised and lowered the pipe could be mine, wanting so much for him to notice me, feeling jealous of the fact that every puff he took from that damned thing was a goodnight kiss I would never receive.  
  
So I stole it. I stole the bloody pipe.  
  
"Because I want to learn," Potter says.  
  
I stop smoking and look at him.  
  
He's looking back.  
  
I slowly hand the pipe over to him as the sky drains the last dregs of light from the sun. He reaches for it and his fingers brush mine. I feel a spark jump from his body to mine, igniting my cheeks.  
  
He parts his soft lips and rests the tip on his lower one.  
  
I'm feeling jealous of that goddamned pipe again.  
  
He takes a long, slow drag on it as daylight goes out. Darkness settles over him and he is now illuminated only by the orange glow of the pipe.  
  
He coughs.  
  
I snigger impolitely as he chokes, unused to the smoke filling his lungs. He hands it back to me, coughing still, eyes watering.  
  
I put the pipe back into my mouth and wrap my lips around the tip, fancying that I could taste the lemony sunshine of his mouth upon it still. I take a small puff, wondering if this was the closest I'd ever get to Potter's lips, that is the pipe was my only kiss by proxy.  
  
Presently, he stops coughing and we sit in silence. I am torn between a sarcastic quip and dragging myself closer to him, to bask in his untouchable, ethereal beauty.  
  
I want to taste him. I want to add the taste of tobacco to my mental list of flavours, to kiss him and really know if I'm right.  
  
We sit in silence for a while longer until I can no longer take it. I turn to tell him to sod off when I realise that he is no longer there.  
  
I never heard him leave.  
  
I wrap my lips around the pipe again and take in a small puff, blowing my smoke of a kiss into the night air, obscuring the clear sky. 


	3. Reflection

Chapter Three-Reflection  
  
The Gryffindors always did get the best of everything.  
  
*********************  
  
The silence in the Slytherin dungeon can be deafening at times.  
  
Especially on Friday nights, when the chatty whispers of sixth and seventh years holding their socials pervades the room, mingled with the grunting breaths and quiet slurps of the fourth year boys.  
  
The acoustics in the Slytherin dungeon have always been spectacularly bad. Every little whisper is heard by the ear of the person furthest away whilst you strain to shout your day's comings and goings to the friend next to you.  
  
But tonight, like every other Friday night, it is the lack of loud noises that presses uncomfortably against your ears. I sit in the Armchair, donated to the Slytherin common room by my great-grandfather, Malevius Malfoy, tapping my fingers idly against the plush cushioning adorning the arm.  
  
It's an exciting place, the Slytherin common room.  
  
I never understood why we, Salazar's chosen students, the purebred, the privileged, are relegated to a fucking dank and clammy dungeon while those bloody Gryffindors are holed away in their poncy tower. They're probably having a grand old time up there, being raucous and uncouth and randy like their Mudblood and Muggle counterparts. Getting warm. And comfortable.  
  
It's no fun having money sometimes.  
  
Everyone expects good behaviour, proper comportment, and ruthless ambition. And a smidgeon of frosty disdain for the nouveau riche. Like the Bulstrodes. Like the Perks.  
  
These are things bred into every Malfoy.  
  
Nothing is louder than the hum of a whisper as I look around the room. Crabbe and Goyle sit together on a sofa, doing nothing, thinking of nothing either. Elisha and Thomas are drinking pumpkin juice out of decanters and goblets, pretending it's brandy. Pansy and Sally-Ann hold their teacups primly, probably congratulating each other on her newest acquisition of a Belladonna Karan dragon-hide clutch.  
  
I'm bored as fuck.  
  
I've already gone for a smoke, terrorising the first years lost its appeal after the first month of school, and unlike Saint Potter and his little lackeys, I don't get myself into trouble for fun.  
  
I think of what they might be doing up in their little tower. Playing Exploding Snap, perhaps. Chess. Swigging butterbeer. Snogging in corners. Potter's probably got that little Mudblood up against a wall, his hand sliding up her robes---  
  
I clench my hands painfully against the velvet brocaded armchair.  
  
No.  
  
No, it's probably that red-haired git, that Weasel, the two of them stealing an illicit kiss during a drunken round of co-ed Spin the Wand. I torture myself with sweet fantasies of Potter's lips softly parting as Weasley leans in to take what is rightfully mine.  
  
Mine.  
  
Anger rises within me. Potter's first kiss is mine. He owes it to me. He owes it to me after seven years of sexual frustration, of hatred, of longing. The first taste of Potter's mouth belongs to me, so that I could explore the different flavours of his tongue, the contours of his teeth, the smell of his hair before anyone else. It's fucking mine.  
  
Suddenly I laugh, the sharpness of the sound bringing to a halt all the activities in the Slytherin common room. Pansy and Sally-Ann titter at me from behind their gloved hands and Elisha and Thomas choke on their pumpkin juice.  
  
When would I take it? When would I claim that kiss?  
  
I push away the Armchair and rise, feeling restless. Crabbe and Goyle grunt and start to accompany me, but I stop them. I'm not in the mood to deal with my two moronic minions, so I head out of the common room without them.  
  
Leaving the Slytherin dungeon, I walk outside, not really caring that it is after hours and that if I were caught, Filch wouldn't hesitate to throw me in detention. Few students cause mischief now that the Wanking Weasley Wonders are gone and I know that batty old codger is itching for some "fun."  
  
But I need a breath of fresh air. I need noise, I need activity, I need freedom, I need----  
  
Potter.  
  
I have no idea where I'm going, but I find myself at the edge of the lake a few moments later, standing right below the Gryffindor Tower.  
  
Three guesses as to why my subconscious brought me here.  
  
I sit on a projection, staring at the ripples of light obscuring the jutting reflection of the tower on the water. It's dark out here, but it's early yet, and the lights are still on in their common room. The barest strains of noise filter down from above, clueing me into what the Gryffindors are up to. Whatever it is, it sounds more exciting than Friday night tea in the Slytherin dungeon.  
  
So I'm fucking jealous. Why is it that the damn Gryffindors get the best of everything? A tower, the House Cup, the Quidditch Cup, a Triwizard champion, Harry Potter---they fucking got the Boy Who Lived.  
  
I pick up a stone from the lakeshore and hurl it as hard as I could against the reflection of the towering edifice. There is a thunk! and a splash as the rock strikes the water, scattering the Gryffindor Tower into millions of refracted ripples. I throw another one, and another, and another, hating them all so much, wanting for their damn tower and repute and fame to shatter, like their reflection on the lake's surface.  
  
The drops splash my face and I sit down, wiping away the water from my cheeks.  
  
Wait a minute, the lake is never warm, especially at this time of year.  
  
Pulling my hand away, I realise that there are tears, tears on my hand. My tears. My fucking tears.  
  
I don't know whether to sob or burst out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. In the end, all I can do is sit. And reflect.  
  
A figure moves into the light of the window, casting a silhouette on the surface of the water. It just stands there, looking out over the grounds.  
  
It's Potter.  
  
I would know that figure anywhere: his wiry frame, unassuming posture, and wild hair. I know that I'm well-hidden against the rocks at the base of the tower, but I feel strangely exposed nonetheless.  
  
I stare at his reflection, fancying that it could stare back and see me sitting here, a black gargoyle, hunched over a rock with a tortured expression on his face.  
  
He doesn't move.  
  
What the hell is he doing, just standing there?  
  
A prickling feeling runs down my neck as I stare down Potter's reflection. The black figure on the surface of the lake suddenly takes on a material, corporeal presence.  
  
I catch my breath. Potter raises his hand, in a silent, silhouetted salutation.  
  
He can't see me. He couldn't have seen me.  
  
But he knows I'm here. He must know I'm here.  
  
I raise my own hand and lightly touch the still surface of the water, causing a small pool of shimmering waves to emanate out from my fingers, obscuring the reflection of the Gryffindor Tower, destroying the rippling black body of Potter's reflection.  
  
No. Wait.  
  
But as the water stills again, the window is empty, and the figure is gone. 


	4. Greenhouse Six

Chapter Four-Greenhouse Six  
  
A night of shared fantasies.  
  
****************************  
  
Sometimes just a smell is enough to get me hard.  
  
The smell of anything sun-browned and tart, of fresh-cut lawns and lemons, of sweet autumn winds and clear glasses of water. The smell of freedom and the no inhibitions and the world outside. The smell of green. The smell of Potter.  
  
Herbology's the worst. It's miles and miles of phallic-shaped plants growing, hardening, thickening, greening. They release their bitter green scent into the glass greenhouses, smothering me in a sweltering haze of Potterphilia.  
  
"Draco, what are you doing, man?"  
  
Terry Boot stares at me with a disgusted expression on his face. I quickly glance down and surreptitiously shift my body away from his gaze.  
  
"What?" I drawl, mustering as bored an expression as I can to take the edge off my red face. Covertly, I arrange my robes so that I have all.angles covered.  
  
"You just fed the Flapping Lily a bumblegroot," the Ravenclaw points out as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Now it's got the hiccoughs and Professor Sprout will take points off from both of us because you're bungling the assignment."  
  
"I bungled nothing," I retort.  
  
Boot merely rolls his eyes and heaves a long-suffering sigh. He cradles the pathetically spasming plant and tries various methods and tactics in an attempt to coax the bloody thing out of its fit.  
  
I could care less. Who gives a fuck about a bunch of kneazle fodder except that daft Longbottom anyway? I finger my father's pipe in the pocket of my robes. I'm desperately craving a puff, but decide against lighting it next to the already wheezing Wheazlebrunt Shrub and risk more of Boot and Sprout's indignation.  
  
Glancing at the hourglass on Sprout's desk, I notice that the top is still a little more than halfway full. I absentmindedly chew the side my finger, resolving not to bring out Father's pipe. Resolving not to the think of the night I shared the ghost of a kiss with Potter. Resolving not to think of Potter at all. Or the upcoming Quidditch match.  
  
Quidditch. The mere thought o it drives a cold fist through my stomach.  
  
Yeah, it was great at first. Or it was going to be great. I was going to be the best damn flier at Hogwarts, make Seeker of the Slytherin House team, win the Quidditch cup.  
  
But things don't always turn out as you plan them.  
  
Potter waltzes in our first year and snatches a spot on his House team. He never fucking loses a single bloody match he flies in. Now Quidditch just makes me sick. It's a one-sided game when it comes to Gryffindor. When it comes to Potter. He holds the aces and dominated the field. Girls go wild over him when he's riding that accursed Firebolt and it's at times like that I want to take that ruddy broom and shatter it with my bare hands, claiming him as mine.  
  
Mine.  
  
"Draco!"  
  
"What, Boot?" I return, bored.  
  
"I want you to properly look after Flapping Lily whilst I get it some water," he says, annoyed.  
  
I wave him off. He sets the plant at our table and I poke at it halfheartedly. Its black petals flap open and shut in a reaction to my intermittent jabbing. I repeat this mindless gesture a few more times.  
  
Open.  
  
Close.  
  
Open.  
  
Close.  
  
Open. Close  
  
Open. Close.  
  
Open-close. Open-close.  
  
Its velvety petals cast shadows over a brilliantly emerald heart and suddenly, it's Potter's eyes staring at me, with his long, dark lashes gently fluttering over viridian eyes.  
  
I shove the plant away from me in surprise and it falls over, crashing onto the greenhouse floor in a resounding explosion of dirt and terracotta pot.  
  
"Malfoy, you blasted git, what in bloody hell are you doing?" Boot yells furiously, hurrying to clean up the mess as the students turn to stare at us.  
  
"Mister Malfoy, what is the meaning of this?"  
  
I look up to see Professor Sprout's befeathered mop of a head quivering in indignation.  
  
"Nothing, Professor, I just----"  
  
"Do you have any idea how difficult Flapping Lilies are to come by?" she asks, picking up the mewling flower.  
  
"No, ma'am."  
  
She doesn't like my tone. She shoots me a frosty look and I match her, gaze for gaze.  
  
"In my office tonight, Mister Malfoy. After dinner. Detention."  
  
"For what?!" I shout.  
  
"For your cheek. And for destruction of school property. Ten points from Slytherin."  
  
I was outraged. I had said nothing, the stupid cow. Not to mention I had scheduled a Quidditch practice for the evening. Don't make me look like an even bigger fool against Potter than I already do, Professor.  
  
"But I booked the pitch for this evening! Madam Hooch----"  
  
"Well, you'll just have to take it up with her, now won't you, boy?" she says, glaring at me and bustling away with the plant.  
  
Fucker.  
  
~~~  
  
It's always because of Potter I'm stuck in detention. Always. Fuck that little sod. Fucking Professor Sprout has set me to repotting every, single fucking plant in Greenhouse Six, the furthest damn room from the castle. I'm filthy, grimy, and seriously ticked off. She could have gotten the bloody houseelves to clean this sodding mess, but no, she wants ME to do it.  
  
Screw that.  
  
The smell in here is sharp and tart, leaving me with a lemony taste in my mouth. The aftertaste of Potter's mouth that lingered on my father's pipe.  
  
And I'm already aroused as it is.  
  
A soft moan escapes from my lips as the thought of Potter's mouth on mine pervades my mind as surely as the scent of a fresh-trimmed verge bleeds into the air.  
  
I want him.  
  
I moan again and grind my hips against the edge of the table, resisting the urge to wank off. I laugh quietly over the irony of it all; I used to come into Greenhouse Six on my prefect rounds to rat out those spending "quality time" with themselves. And now here I am, on the verge of committing that same transgression.  
  
The door slides open and I look up, hastily overfilling a pot in my attempt to hide my actions.  
  
There is no one there.  
  
I frown, certain that I could feel someone else's presence in Greenhouse Six with me. I look about the room, there is nothing there that shouldn't be.  
  
I exhale and start to clean up. Blast these plants with their provocatively shaped stems. The Tumesca Turgia is may possibly be the worst. I run my hand along the smooth shaft of the plant, its girth too eerily similar to another shaft on the human body.  
  
I feel my breath getting shallower and I grip the plant a little harder than I intend to. It gives out a little gasp.  
  
I let go and the plant moans slightly.  
  
But wait, Tumesca Turgias don't have vocal cords.  
  
Tentatively, I reach out to touch it and there's another muffled moan.  
  
No, it's definitely not the plant.  
  
I wait a few more moments before there's another guttural moan, accompanied by quiet "uh-uh"s.  
  
Unwillingly, I feel myself harden. The utterances are quiet, unlike mine, which tend to get loud. I press against the edge of the table to take an edge off the pressure building in my crotch.  
  
The soft pants sound like Potter during a Quidditch match, all intense concentration and focused drive. I wonder if that's how he'll be in bed: pent-up passion.  
  
Fuck.  
  
I can't stand anymore, not with the wood that I'm sporting.  
  
I sit on the floor, trying my best not to come in my pants.  
  
Think of unattractive things. Think of Crabbe and Goyle's table manners. Think of Pansy without her makeup. Kittens. Shoelaces. Cookie cutters. Anything.  
  
Wait a fucking minute.  
  
There's a ripple in the air. By the leg of Sprout's desk, near the ground.  
  
The soft moans increase in frequency as the ripple pulses faster.  
  
Suddenly, as if my subconscious is taking over my brain, Potter materialises before my eyes.  
  
At least, his head and torso do.  
  
What the fuck?  
  
His head is thrown back against Sprout's desk, the moonlight glinting off his specs, hiding his eyes from view. His lips are swollen and softly parted, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in time with his shallow breaths. His shoulders are rigid and the muscles in his arm jerk back and forth. His hand disappears into thin air, and although I can't see the rest o him, I can take a damn good guess at what he's doing.  
  
What bizarre, twisted fantasy is this? I'd always dreamed of Potter with me, naked as the day he was born, not jerking off by himself, half- invisible.  
  
It's sheer torture, like a peep show, seeing just enough of him to get me up, yet not enough to grant me release.  
  
I watch him, unable to turn away. I always wanted to know what he would be like when he came. Was he quiet? Loud? Explosive? Shuddering?  
  
I dig my nails into my palm to prevent myself from shattering into a million horny pieces. I long to touch myself, but I fear that if I move, the illusion would be gone.  
  
So I sit there, hard as a rock, watching as Potter inched closer and closer to climax. I bite my lip to prevent myself from screaming with pain, with lust, and with desire.  
  
Suddenly, he tenses and wracking shudders overcome his wiry frame.  
  
"M.ffff."  
  
I strain to hear the name he utters at the height of his ride, but he comes so silently that I can't make it out. Suddenly, his body goes limp and he slides down, lying on the floor, flushed and breathing hard.  
  
My own chest is heaving.  
  
He was so fucking beautiful. Like Adonis, with the tension of a strung bow that was nigh unbearable, until the arrow is sprung.  
  
Presently, he rises and in a swirl of air, he disappears leaving me breathless and unsatisfied.  
  
The click of the door brings me to my senses and I realise that it must now be past eleven.  
  
But I don't move.  
  
Instead, I draw my father's pipe and light it, ridding myself of the bitter green taste left in my mouth. 


End file.
